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galaxymagitech · 9 months

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Robins on a Rooftop

This fic was written for the Batfam Secret Santa 2023 (run by @wait-whos-batman) for @howtokillavampire, and it is...still technically 2023. You can also find it on AO3 here.

Summary: An encounter with the Mad Hatter goes horribly wrong and Tim runs away. Better to quit than to be fired.

Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Mind Control. While under mind control, Bruce attacks Tim.

***

The lights are blinding. Tim had wondered why everyone looked so squinty on stage during the Gotham Academy Musical, and now he has his answer. The lights are blinding, except for the Batman’s shadow, which engulfs Tim like a creature from his nightmares. Tim’s going to die on stage and there’s probably something poetic about this, but Tim’s no Jason Todd. He has a B in English right now and he does all his reading on SparkNotes. So, he’s a whole lot less worried about poeticism right now and a whole lot more worried about the burning pain in his ribs (broken or bruised?) and the sluggishly-bleeding cut across his torso and the gauntlets wrapped around his throat.

Tim closes his eyes. His mind is terrifyingly blank, racing to nowhere, lost in fear and confusion. He can’t look. If he looks, he’ll see the white eye-lenses of the cowl and Batman’s mouth curled into a grimace and Tim can’t. He can’t see that right now, not if he wants to live through the next few minutes and prevent Batman from becoming a murderer. His murderer, to be precise.

Going against all his instincts, Tim forces himself to stop trying to peel Batman’s fingers away from his neck. He’s a fourteen-year-old non-meta human; he’s not going to be able to break the Batman’s grasp. It takes all his willpower to make his thrashing legs go still and let his arms fall to the side, but Tim manages. Then, he rotates right shoulder to reach behind him, feeling around desperately.

The thing about Tim is he’s not that great of a fighter. He’s good, sure, but not compared to the other vigilantes stalking Gotham’s rooftops—certainly not compared to the Batman. But he’s a thinker, and that just has to suffice. Tim’s been keeping track of this battle from the beginning. Every move—the way the goons shifted into formations like the cogs of a well-oiled machine, the way Batman joined that machine once the headband was slipped over his cowl, and the way Tim’s bo staff rolled across the floor when Batman brutally disarmed him.

It would be a lie if Tim said he’d led the fight to this point so that he could win. He just got lucky. But considering how unlucky it is that the cowl’s anti-mind-control circuitry was the exact part damaged in the fire Firefly had set, well…Tim thinks he’s owed that luck. And the universe seems to agree, because if Tim’s right—and he usually is—his bo staff should be somewhere right behind him.

Tim’s fingers close around the cool metal of the bo staff and he compresses it, twisting his arm back towards his chest. And then, bracing one end of the bo staff against the floor, he looks straight into Batman’s eyes and extends the staff.

Batman doesn’t go flying across the stage, but he grunts in pain and topples to the side, his grip releasing. Tim coughs, lungs screaming for air as he scrambles away from Batman, bo staff raised in a sloppy defensive position. He’s surrounded by goons and Batman’s making his way to his feet and Tetch is in the front row seat, sipping calmly from his teacup.

Tim can’t escape from Batman, but he doesn’t need to escape. He just needs a few seconds. Tetch’s eyes go wide as the cup pauses just before his lips, but it’s too late for the Mad Hatter. Launching himself off the stage, Tim somersaults and lands right in front of Tetch. In a single, fluid motion, Tim swipes the hat from the Mad Hatter’s head. And the jolt of electricity that strikes him a moment later from Tetch’s taser, well—that doesn’t really matter.

The goons freeze, before collapsing to the ground. Tim sees the moment Bruce returns to himself, the way the man’s posture switches from aggressive to guarded, with only the slightest hint of confusion. The Mad Hatter begins to flee as Tim struggles to his feet, muscles burning and twitching from the electric shock.

“Robin, are you—”

The lights are no longer on the stage, they’re shining directly on Tim. The Mad Hatter must’ve made it to the lighting box area at the back of the audience. But why isn’t he fleeing? Tim doesn’t get it. He raises a shaking arm to shield his eyes, grimacing.

And then Bruce’s eyes fall on Tim and the bright lighting is the least of Tim’s problems. Tim can feel the weight of Bruce’s gaze, heavy as a lead uniform weighing down his entire being. He knows Bruce is cataloguing injuries. He knows Bruce is comparing them to what he observed in the fight before he fell under mind control. He knows what Bruce is thinking. But when Tim tries to speak, the words catch in his throat like barbed wire and he coughs and coughs and coughs. By the time Tim’s throat is no longer burning, the stage is empty.

Stumbling forwards, Tim struggles up the nearest aisle, clutching the railing. When he makes it to the lighting box, he sees it’s empty. Throwing open the exit doors, Tim steps into the theater’s lobby. And there he sees Batman hunched over Tetch, his fists pounding into the Rogue’s face again and again and again—

Tim rushes towards his mentor, boots pounding even on the lobby’s carpeted floor. “Stop,” he says, and it comes out as a hoarse whisper. “Stop, just stop, just—” He pushes weakly at Batman’s shoulder, but of course the man doesn’t budge. Tim doesn’t know what to do. He can’t hit Batman and he’s too weak to pull him off and he can’t shout and it’s like Bruce is in his own world. It’s like Tim isn’t even there for him. Just Bruce and the Mad Hatter and failure.

Tim’s supposed to be better than this.

Tim’s supposed to keep Batman from falling over the edge.

Tim’s supposed to be Robin.

But, he thinks as Nightwing crashes in through the second story window, I was never a real Robin, was I?

***

It’s close to 5 am, but Tim doesn’t feel it. Only Friday patrols last this late—by now, he should be asleep in bed, under several layers of warm blankets. Instead, though, he perches on the edge of his chair, a mechanical pencil clutched tightly in his fingers. He’s holding it wrong, but that’s not the point. Pencil is erasable. It’s not the proper writing implement for a permanent resignation letter. Now that he’s drafted his letter, delayed as long he could, all that’s left is to write it for real.

It takes an effort to put the pencil down and pick up a ballpoint pen. And then, carefully, neatly, Tim copies his words onto a crisp, white sheet of paper. He tries not to let his hands tremble. He lets himself get distracted by how the wet ink shimmers in the lamplight, but only for a moment. When the letter is finished, Tim sets down the pen and lets out a long breath, feeling the air fade away through his half-open mouth.

Tim should be tired, but he’s not. And he’s certainly not excited either. And he’s not scared, he’s not. If Tim tries, he can still feel the pressure crushing his windpipe. And that’s terrifying, so Tim doesn’t try. Instead, he just feels detached, separated from the world, a second out of phase.

It’s fine now, Tim reassures himself. Tetch has been dealt with—brutally. Which is the real problem.

Tetch survived, but he’s been sent to the hospital, not Arkham. In the end, Nightwing had to pull Batman off of the Mad Hatter. It’s Tim’s fault. He was supposed to make Batman better, and maybe he helped in the very beginning, but all he’s doing right now is making things worse. Tim doesn’t know if he was just an excuse or if Bruce really was that angry over being mind-controlled into attacking Tim. But either way, if Tim wasn’t present to be hurt, Bruce wouldn’t have nearly lost control.

There’s an obvious solution there. And Tim tries to be a logical person, so when he sees a logical solution, he takes it.

He also takes the Robin suit, partially because he figures it’s safer to be out as Robin right now than a random (admittedly short) fourteen-year-old in rich people clothes. Tim will return it, eventually, but since he also kind of needs to do some break-ins (physical records are a pain and Gotham CPP is too messy to have converted fully to digital), he figures it’ll still be useful.

And it’s not—it’s not like Tim was going to last much longer as Robin anyway. Bruce would likely fire Tim for this mess. Maybe he’d phrase it as “I can’t bear to fail another Robin” and make Tim feel patronized instead of incompetent in a misguided attempt at kindness. But there’s no world in which Tim gets to stay Robin after how badly he messed up. Not just in the fire earlier that night or the fight at the theater, but afterwards, when Tim couldn’t tear Batman away from Tetch. He’s shown how useless he is, and Batman’s going to realize it soon if he hasn’t already. Better to quit before he’s fired. Better to leave now.

Tim really should be planning his break-ins, but instead he finds himself on a rooftop. He breathes in the smoggy air and tastes the strange cocktail of chemicals that makes Gotham home. From up above, the city looks beautiful, bright lights sparkling across a dark canvas. From down below, Tim would still say it looks beautiful, but from here—

Well. Tim can understand why, after all these years, Bruce has never given up on Gotham.

Tim doesn’t know how long he sits there, but he figures it’s got to be a while, because he hears the sound of a grappling line slicing through the air and then a whisper of footsteps behind him.

“Mind if I sit down?” Nightwing asks. Tim shrugs. Dick folds his legs into a seated position next to Tim and looks out at the glittering lights. “Bruce went to check on you and…he found your note.”

“My resignation letter,” Tim clarifies. It still hurts his throat a bit, but Alfred’s possibly-magical lozenges are a lifesaver. Technically, he was told not to talk, but all Bats are experts at ignoring medical advice.

“Yeah.” Dick turns towards him. “Look, I…we understand. Bruce understands. It’s fine if you have to get out for a bit. But what I don’t get is…why did you run away? It was terrifying, seeing that note and not knowing where you were. Bruce was in panicking and I wasn’t far behind.”

There’s something distinctly off about Dick’s phrasing, but Tim can’t put his finger on it. “It’s easier if I get a head start on things, you know?”

“A head start?” Dick tilts his head curiously.

“Well, if I stay then Bruce will have to call the CPP, and I don’t want to get swept up into social services and maybe get a social worker who’ll remember I existed and ask to meet my uncle,” Tim explains.

“What.” Dick says flatly. “Tim, you don’t have an uncle.”

Tim gives him an unimpressed stare. “Yeah. Which is why I have to fake one, and it’d be super frustrating to have to hire an actor to trick a social worker. So, if I leave now then I can resolve it all before Bruce has to deal with it.”

Dick puts his hands out like he’s pleading with someone. “Okay, um, can we back up here?” Tim shrugs. “Why would Bruce call CPP?”

“Because I’m not staying at Wayne Manor anymore,” Tim says slowly. He feels like he’s explaining it to a two-year-old, and—well, he knows that Dick is incredibly intelligent but right now it really doesn’t seem like it. “That’s…something you have to call CPP for? When the kid leaves your care?”

“Oh,” Dick says quietly. He looks away from Tim for a moment, takes a visibly deep breath, and then looks back. “I didn’t realize—That’s. That’s okay. It’s okay if you feel that way. You can stay with me, though. I registered as a foster parent a while ago in case something happened to Bruce. Robin can work with Nightwing and Dick Grayson can foster Tim. So, you don’t need to…invent a person.”

Tim throws his hands up in the air. “But I won’t be Robin!”

“That’s okay,” Dick says. “If that’s what you want, that’s okay.”

“But…it’s not a question of what I want,” Tim explains, looking down. “I left because quitting is better than getting fired! I don’t want Bruce to take away Robin, I’m not ready, but if I give it up, then…I can…I can pretend I’m okay.” It hurts to admit it, that he’s only pretending. Tim knew he wasn’t going to be Robin forever. He knew he was going to leave eventually. He had accepted that, he was fine with that, he liked that maybe he had a shot at actually surviving to an old age. But he’d always thought that he’d leave on a high note. After a good patrol. Bruce would congratulate Tim and thank him for his service, like a soldier retiring. And it would be like Batman was graduating or something, ready to exist without a Robin. Tim would know it was coming and choose it for himself. But, he’s not going to get that, so he has to pretend. “It’s easier if it hurts less. Cleaner. I—”

“Woah,” Dick interrupts. Tim freezes, gaze snapping to Dick’s face. “I don’t think we’re on the same page here. Why are you leaving again?”

“Because if I’m not Robin, then there’s no point in staying at Wayne Manor. I’m there—I was there because it was convenient for the Mission, that’s all.” No brainer.

Dick closes his eyes and leans back, before reopening them and scootching a little closer to Tim. “We definitely aren’t on the same page.”

“Why did you think I was leaving?”

“Well…” Dick shrugs. “Bruce did attack you with a batarang, bruise two of your ribs, and attempt to strangle you. And he was mind-controlled, but you still have that memory, so…we could understand if you need a break.”

Tim blinks at him, because that thought…never really occurred to him. He thinks of how his heart felt like it was going to burst out of his ribcage, how his mind turned terrifyingly blank, how Batman’s gauntlets dug into his throat, and—yeah. Yeah, that might make things a little awkward. But that’s Tim’s problem and he’ll get over it, because Batman was mind-controlled and Bruce would never, ever do that. And besides, he’s worked with people he was genuinely terrified of before, he’s worked with Lady Shiva, so even if he did suddenly develop a fear of someone who he shouldn’t logically fear, Tim would be fine. Right? Tim would make himself fine. “I’m fine,” he says, because he realizes he’s been silent for way too long. “It was Tetch doing that, not Bruce. I’m fine.”

“Bruce isn’t going to take away Robin, Tim,” Dick says. Tim hums disbelievingly, turning his head away and swinging his legs. He counts the thuds of his heels against the stone masonry. “But, even if he did—you don’t need to leave the Manor. You’re not here just because it’s convenient. You’re part of our family and you have a place here, Robin or not.”

“He isn’t going to take it away because I quit before he could,” Tim responds. It feels like he’s talking in circles with Dick. He should be breaking into Gotham CPP headquarters right now, not having pointless emotional conversations on a rooftop. “I failed tonight. I let him get mind-controlled and I couldn’t stop him from nearly killing Tetch. I failed as his partner and I failed as his light. And I’m not part of the family.”

“No. Batman isn’t going to fire you. You didn’t fail, and even if you did, you’re still learning. And you are part of the family. You’re Robin.” Dick smiles at Tim, and even though Tim knows he’s spouting complete BS, it warms something behind his two bruised ribs.

“Being Robin doesn’t make me part of your family,” Tim says. “And even if it did, Dick, I’m not Robin anymore, so I don’t belong with you guys.”

“Nope!” Dick says, overly cheerful. “You’re one of us now. No takebacks.” He shifts, expression turning serious. “For Bruce, Batman’s like a mask. A persona he puts on. But for us, Robin is…different. Robin isn’t a character we’re playing. It’s part of us. It’s who we are.”

“It’s who you are,” Tim corrects. Dick is the one who created the title. The first Robin. The one who defined what Robin meant. Jason continued the line and added his own flare. But Tim? He put on a uniform and went to work. “Robin’s always been temporary for me. I always knew I’d retire and just move on with the rest of my life.”

Dick shrugs. “Even if you quit, that doesn’t change a thing. We’re Robin, Tim, and that means something.”

“It means I saw a need and I filled it. Dick, I’m not—I wasn’t—a real Robin and you know it.”

“It means we took an oath. But—it’s more than that. We spent part of our childhood fighting crime from Gotham’s rooftops. Only we know what that’s like. Not Batman, not anyone else. Just Robins. We know what it’s like to fly. We fought to save a city that should’ve been fighting to save us. And we were so stubborn that we convinced the most paranoid and smothering father in the universe that the best option for us was blatant child endangerment. Tim, you stalked Batman to collect evidence of his recklessness, followed me to Haly’s Circus, and had the guts to present all this evidence to him and force him to make you Robin. You’re a Robin, Tim. It doesn’t matter if you never put on a domino mask again. You’re part in this family, whether you like it or not. You can’t leave.”

Tim snorts, before realizing that Dick is completely serious. And engaging with ridiculous arguments, especially Dick’s ridiculous arguments, is usually a path to disaster, but…Tim is tired right now, and Dick is right there, and this may be the last time Tim speaks to him ever again. Suddenly, he desperately wants to keep the conversation going for as long as possible. “Okay, one. That sounds insanely creepy. And two, shared trauma and poor self-preservation instincts don’t make a family.”

“They make this one. You’re not getting fired, but you’re definitely not getting kicked out of the family. I promise. So, please, Tim. Come home.”

And Robin lies and Nightwing lies, but…

…they don’t break their promises. They don’t break their oaths. Dick promises, and he means it.

So when Dick stands up, offering a hand, Tim’s fingers twitch. And then, almost against his will, he places his hand in Dick’s and pulls himself to his feet.

***

When they arrive in the Batcave, Tim barely gets a chance to take a few steps before Bruce is right in front of him, cowl off, hair disheveled. “Tim! Are you okay? Dick, where did you find him? Do you—” He freezes, before taking several steps back. “Sorry. Is this better?”

“I—” Tim begins, before Bruce cuts him off.

“I’m so sorry, Tim. I didn’t keep track of the fight and you paid the price for it and I am so, so sorry.”

“It’s—”

“And I understand if you want to stay with Dick for a little while or if you don’t feel you can be Robin anymore, but if there’s anything that would help, I would, I would—” Bruce is getting genuinely choked up and Tim needs to calm him down but he can’t get a word in edgewise. Tim turns to Dick with an expression of pure panic. “I’m sorry, I’m—”

“B,” Dick says loudly, rolling his eyes. “Let Tim speak.”

Bruce pauses and then bows his head slightly.

“I’m not scared of you, okay?” Tim says. This situation feels genuinely bizarre. “I’m not scared of you, I’m not—I’m not upset with you?” He thinks, looking at Batman, that if he wanted to feel scared, he could. If Bruce put on the cowl right now, so soon after the incident, Tim can…Tim can imagine how he might get scared. And if he does getscared, then he’ll figure that out. But looking at Batman, all he sees is Bruce: a mess, bags under his eyes, out of his mind with worry. “We’re fine,” he says.

“Oh,” Bruce mumbles, and Tim can see him smiling ever-so-slightly. “Oh, that’s. That’s good. But I’m—”

“Don’t say it,” Dick mutters.

“—sorry.”

Tim feels like he should ask if he’s going to get fired, but he’s not going to suggest it if Bruce hasn’t thought of that yet. This doesn’t feel entirely real. He’s not 100% sure that he’s not still on the theater’s stage, running out of oxygen, about to die. That seems a whole lot more plausible than this image of Batman in front of him, looking like—

—looking like a father who thought he might have lost his son.

“Bruce,” Dick says. “Tell Tim you’re not firing him.”

“What?” Bruce asks, bewildered, and Tim feels his heart sink. And then, because the universe apparently likes to play games of yo-yo with Tim’s organs, Bruce turns to Tim and says, firmly, “Of course not. You’re not fired. If you want to be Robin, then you can still be Robin.”

“He thought that you—”

“Stop it,” Tim hisses.

“This is important, Tim. Bruce, he thought you were going to kick him out, too.” Bruce stares at Tim wordlessly. Dick makes a vague encouraging gesture with his hand, but Tim can’t tell who it’s aimed at. “Bruce, are you going to kick Tim out?”

That shocks Bruce out of whatever confusion he’s in. “No!”

“I mean, if I’m still Robin—”

Bruce looks vaguely sick. “Tim, you being here isn’t dependent on you being Robin.” He sighs, and Tim can see Bruce’s gaze flicker over to Jason’s memorial. “It’s not conditional on anything. You are always welcome here, in this manor, in this family.”

Dick grins. “Told you, Tim. You’re stuck with us.”

Tim smiles too. Mostly to mimic, but—

He thinks he believes them. And he couldn’t think of a better family to be stuck in.

#batfamsecretsanta2023 #batman #tim drake #dick grayson #bruce wayne #hurt/comfort #found family #angst #fanfiction #fanfic

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galaxymagitech · 9 months

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take a break (and maybe commit some arson)

Gift fic for @132132jebb! Part of the Batfam Secret Santa 2023, run by @wait-whos-batman. You can find it on AO3 here.

Requests: Tim Drake or Tim x Bernard; Fluff or Angst

Tim’s eyes are going blurry, he can’t remember the last time he’s has a sip of water or a wink of sleep, and he smells overwhelmingly like coffee and sweat. It’s gross, but Tim has bigger concerns right now. Bigger concerns like triangulating Killer Croc’s position in the sewers, solving the Riddler’s latest riddle, and figuring out what the heck is going on with the gangs in the Narrows, because something is off about them right now.

When he saves his latest attempt at locating Killer Croc on the Batcomputer, he finds that the program won’t run. Blinking, Tim tries again, letting his chin rest in his hand and his elbow slide down his desk. Suddenly, his screen goes dark. For a moment, Tim’s heart jolts, shocking him upright. And then he notices Oracle’s faceless symbol in the righthand corner of the screen. Tim groans as words appear at the bottom of the monitor.

GET SOME SLEEP, ROBIN

Blearily, Tim flips open his laptop and tries to log into his Wayne Enterprises account. As if the crimefighting issues weren’t enough, the gangs are doubly Tim’s responsibility. The Neon Knights are facing opposition at every turn from a new politician, and Tim is drowning in paperwork required just to keep the program afloat, let alone work on making the shelters safer for kids avoiding the CPP. If he can’t find the Rogues, at least he can help with this.

But he’s locked out of WE too. This time, he blames Tam. He’d always thought that if Barbara and Tam joined forces, they’d be terrifying. He supposes the universe is lucky that they just want Tim to sleep instead of harboring a secret desire to conquer the world, but…

…Tim doesn’t want to sleep right now. Or ever, if he can help it. Eventually, he’ll collapse, but he’ll remain productive for as long as he can. He shuffles over to the coffee maker, thinking. The Bats don’t keep paper records, not really, but Babs and Tam can’t keep Tim from going out in the field. Tim checks the time—8:32 AM. Well, Robin’s not supposed to be out in the daylight, but he knows Duke wouldn’t mind. Right? It’s not like Duke would know if Tim just did some reconnaissance.

Think of the vigilante and he shall appear. Duke walks into the Batcave, eating a muffin and glaring some sort of newscast on his phone. When he looks up, tucking his phone into his sweatshirt pocket, he sees Tim and does a double take. “Tim? Why’re you still up?”

“Working,” Tim says. “Until I got locked out. Hey, you wouldn’t mind if I went out during the day today, right?”

Duke squints at him suspiciously. “Why’d you get locked out?”

“Babs and Tam have strong opinions on sleep cycles, with which I disagree.”

“How long has it been since you’ve slept?” Duke asks.

“Uh…” Tim doesn’t know. He probably conked out for a bit yesterday—there’s just no way that writing a single project proposal took him four hours. But he doesn’t remember sleeping, so maybe he was just really distracted thinking about his—

—about his date with Bernard. Today. At noon. Tim scrubs a hand across his face. He’ll have to cancel. He can say it’s because he doesn’t feel safe with this many Rogues out—Tim is a prime target for kidnapping, after all. Tim hates lying to Bernard, but he needs to find Killer Croc and he needs to solve the riddle and he needs to get his paperwork in. And yeah, he feels bad because he cancelled his last date with Bernard, but Gotham comes first.

“Seriously, Tim, just get some sleep.”

“This is important,” Tim insists. “There are suspected Croc killings across the city, the Riddler’s getting impatient, the gangs are acting weird, Calendar Man is still at large, Green is attempting to destroy the Neon Knights program, and—”

“You’re not the only Bat,” Duke says. “We’re just as competent as you are and we can handle it while you rest. Trust us.”

Tim sighs. “Duke, I appreciate the sentiment, but—”

Duke shakes his head fondly. “But you’re going to ignore whatever I say and work yourself to death anyway.”

Tim doesn’t respond. He isn’t ignoring Duke, per say, but he’s not exactly listening to him either. Besides, Duke is younger than him, it’s not like Tim has to listen to him. And Tim disobeys Batman all the time, so… “I’ll be fine,” Tim says.

“Yeah, I know. But stay off the dayshift, I can handle it myself. See you around,” Duke says, waving as he heads over to the changing rooms.

Damn it.

Tim knows he can’t get around Oracle’s lockout on his account. He’d definitely be able to get around Tam’s, but…he has a better idea.

He logs out of the Batcomputer, ignoring Barbara’s ‘GOOD CHOICE.’ And then, grinning, he logs into Dick’s account.

Stealing Dick’s passwords is disturbingly easy. All he has to do was get Dick distracted in a conversation and he would forget that Tim had a reputation for this sort of thing. Tim could create a recursive password algorithm so that the passwords change each time, but…why would he do that when he has perfect access to Dick’s Batcomputer account? It’s not like he’s using it for anything bad. He’s not spying on Dick. He’s just circumventing attempts to force him to make good life choices!

Grinning, Tim opens up reports of dismemberment in the Diamond District and gets to work.

A little over an hour later, Dick’s motorcycle rumbles into the cave and he dismounts, pulling off his helmet to reveal giant bags under his eyes. “Tim?” Dick says, as if he’s not entirely sure he’s not hallucinating. Tim stays very still. Maybe Dick will think he’s just a hallucination.

Unfortunately, Tim has no such luck.

“Tim, don’t you have that thing today?”

“What thing?” Tim asks innocently.

“You have a date. In less than three hours. When did you last sleep?”

“I’m fine,” Tim says. “And I’m not going on the date. I have work to do.”

Dick sighs, walking over. “No, you have a date to go on. You told me how excited you were for this.” Tim shrugs. “Tim. You’re sixteen. Go on your date. I’ll take care of whatever you’re doing.”

“I can handle it,” Tim says.

“I’m sure you can. But you should be able to go have fun with your boyfriend.”

“Not when there are Rogues on the loose. If I waste even an hour, who knows what I could’ve accomplished in that time? How many lives I could’ve saved?”

Dick pulls up a chair and Tim groans. This is wasting so much time. “It’s not all on you, Tim. You need to take a break.”

“You’re one to talk,” Tim says. “How long’s it been since you last slept?” Dick does not respond. “Yeah, I thought so. Please, I can handle this, Dick.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“Well, I do.”

“No, you don’t. There are—nine of us, Tim. You’ve done your part. It’s time to take a break.”

Tim knows that Dick’s just trying to help, but it grates on him. Dick doesn’t do this to the others, except maybe Damian, and Damian’s a kid so that doesn’t really count. And even then, Damian can just stab Dick to emphasize his point and get away with it. Benefits of being raised in the League of Assassins, Tim guesses, but he ran the League of Assassins for a bit—surely he’s entitled to a little stabbing as a patronization deterrent. “I appreciate it, Dick, but I’m fine. You’ve been dealing with whatever’s going on with Deathstroke for twenty-four hours, you deserve a break. Bruce is in space, Damian wouldn’t be able to do the Neon Knights stuff, Duke is finding Calendar Man, Jason’s halfway across the country, and I’m not leaving Alfred and Steph to handle this alone. Please stop.”

Dick frowns at him. “Then I’ll work too. And I’m not leaving until you do. So if you want me to sleep, then you need to—”

Tim rolls his eyes. “Come on, Dick. I’m old enough to make my own bad decisions. And you know I’ll collapse when I really need to.”

Dick doesn’t want to leave, Tim can tell, but he’s exhausted. So, Dick leaves, and Tim continues to work from his older brother’s account.

It’s another hour later when Steph storms into the Batcave, her arms crossed. “I don’t like running errands,” she says, “but Babs is pissed.”

“At…me?” Tim asks. He’s found Killer Croc and sent the location to Steph and Duke, since they’re the only ones who aren’t too sleep-deprived to fight him right now. But he still has the riddle and some Neon Knights paperwork has been rejected on a technicality so Tim has to redo it all over again and close that stupid loophole. And the riddle…it’s just a bunch of repeated words, with stupid-sounding parts like ‘I am what I am at what I am,’ something about Uncle Sam, and what Tim was able to translate into a French tongue twister.

“Yes, at you. And no one ignores Oracle and gets away with it.” Steph gestures to the Batcomputer, which clearly says ‘Nightwing’ at the top of the screen.

Damn it. Steph must’ve told Barbara that Tim was clearly still working when she got the coordinates. “I had to,” Tim justifies. “She locked me out.”

“For a good reason. And anyway, don’t you have somewhere to be?” Tim looks at Steph, startled. He doesn’t usually discuss his dating life with her, for obvious reasons. Steph rolls her eyes. “Dick mentioned it.”

“I’m not going,” Tim says. “I have to finish this.”

“Ugh. You cancelled your date?”

Tim freezes. Because—yes, he decided to tell Bernard he couldn’t go. But he’s not 100% sure he actually called or texted him. “Crap,” Tim says.

“No way,” Steph says. “You are not standing up your boyfriend.”

“There’s an Arkham breakout!”

Steph grabs Tim by the shoulder and hauls him out of his seat. “As your friend, I’m not going to let you mess this up. Go. On. Your. Date.”

“I wish I could,” Tim sighs. “But…” he gestures at the Batcomputer and his laptop.

Steph slips past Tim and sits down in front of the Batcomputer. “Let me. Signal will handle Croc.”

“But—”

“Cluemaster’s daughter, remember?” Steph says, jabbing her chest with her thumb. “I can solve a riddle. And you are not the only person involved in the Neon Knights program and it’s a Saturday, so no one will be reviewing your paperwork anyway. So send an email, take a shower, and go on your date. ‘kay?”

“Yeah, alright,” Tim says. “Thanks, Steph.”

Steph raises her eyebrows. “Fighting crime is literally my job. You’re not alone, Tim.”

***

Tim meets Bernard at a diner in a somewhat sketchy part of the city. For Gotham, it’s not that bad, but it’s not exactly the best place for a date. And yet, Bernard had suggested it with a familiar glint in his eye that told Tim he had a Theory.

He gets there a couple minutes early and stares at the menu until Bernard slides into the booth across from him. Immediately, Tim can feel his heart jump in his chest and his lips turn up into a smile. Like Bernard is a magnet that just induced an electric current through him, lighting up his world. And that’s stupid and poetic and mushy and Tim just grins like an idiot. “Hey,” Bernard says.

“Hi,” Tim responds, and waves, before facepalming. That was…so stupid. Why did he wave? Bernard is right across from him.

Bernard waves back. “My parents almost didn’t let me go out. Even though I told them I was meeting up with friends in Bristol. Killer Croc doesn’t really care where you are.”

“If you want to go back—”

“Nah,” Bernard says. “’course not. Besides, I’ve been training in martial arts. Maybe I could hold Killer Croc off for a bit.”

“You know,” Tim responds. “Six percent of American men think they can beat a bear in a fight unarmed.” A statistic that Steph had chirped out on patrol when Damian had confidently stated that he could fight Killer Croc alone.

“That’s easy,” Bernard says. “About that many men are gay. Clearly, they’re talking about a different type of bear. It’s a lovers’ spat.”

“Bernard. The poll said a grizzly bear.”

“Maybe those bears have beards.”

Tim laughs despite himself, feeling his smile get even wider. The sun streams in through the nearby window, and Tim can almost, almost forget that he’s shirking every single one of his responsibilities and hasn’t slept for real in multiple days.

A waitress comes over to take their order. Tim tries to get coffee, but Bernard gives him a knowing look and so Tim orders a milkshake instead. Predictably, Bernard gets a strawberry milkshake. Unpredictably, he asks for two waters. “Tim,” he says as the waitress leaves. “I’m guessing your blood is more coffee than water at this point.”

“I don’t think that’s scientifically possible,” Tim says.

“Hey, d’you think that would explain the Flashes?” Bernard asks. His eyes light up and Tim leans forward subconsciously. Bernard clasps his hands on the table. “Maybe their bodies react differently to caffeine due to a latent meta gene. It would explain why they’re always so hyper. I mean, have you seen Impulse? He’s so jittery that you can’t even see him on video sometimes. He’s got to be constantly ODing on caffeine.”

Tim knows that this is definitely not the case. And he can’t in good conscience agree with the theory. But he loves talking to Bernard and he also can’t help but engage in the conversation. “I don’t know, they seem kind of ADHD to me,” he says. “Wouldn’t that mean that caffeine would help them focus?”

“Wait—yes,” Bernard agrees. “I’ve got it! Caffeine helps them focus their meta energy into speed. Like how caffeine helps someone with ADHD focus all their energy onto the task at hand.” He leans forward, matching Tim. “I mean, have you seen the footage of Impulse at Starbucks?”

“No?”

Bernard takes out his phone, tapping away at it for a few seconds before placing it sideways on the table so they can both see it. Tim moves a little closer than maybe is necessary and Bernard mirrors him. He can feel the tips of Bernard’s hair brush against the shell of his ear. Focus, Tim tells himself, looking at grainy footage of Impulse tapping his foot impatiently in a crowded Starbucks. A barista calls out four drinks with eight shots of expresso each. Impulse picks up the drinks, and pours them into one giant bottle as the barista looks on, horrified. And then, he disappears from the camera. “That is absolutely insane. Unless you’re a metahuman whose body processes caffeine differently.”

Tim rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. He…remembers that. And it was not Impulse drinking the 32-expresso shot drink. “It’s…not that bad,” Tim argues weakly. In his defense, he was having a really tough week.

“Please tell me you’ve never done that,” Bernard says.

Tim looks him in the eye. “I have never done that,” he says, voice monotone.

“Oh my god, Tim. Seriously? How are you not dead?”

“It takes a lot more than that to kill me.”

“Maybe you’re Impulse,” Bernard says.

“Bernard, my hair is black.”

Bernard shrugs. “You could wear a wig. Or maybe you’re a shape-shifter.” He smiles lopsidedly. “I bet you’d be a great superhero.”

Tim leans back, shifting himself back into the booth. “No way. I’m not really cut out for it.” That’s not entirely a lie. He only became Robin as a last resort, and he’d never really intended for it to be a permanent thing. And yet, he couldn’t just quit, not when people needed him.

Bernard’s lips twitch. “You totally are.”

“Nah.”

“Well, if you aren’t a superhero, you could be my guy in the chair. Like Ned in the Spider-Man movies. You know, there are theories that the Bats have one.”

“A guy in the chair?” So…basically Oracle. A gal in the chair. Literally.

“Yep. See, they have got to have comms, right?”

“Sure…” Tim says cautiously.

“But there are so many of them that someone’s got to be helping them with the channels. Because think about the Robins’ costumes—nowhere to hide comms. So if the comms are in their ears and small enough that no one can see, there’s just no way that each person has control over who they can speak to. Someone has to be patching them into the right channels.”

“Maybe they have an AI handling it,” Tim suggests. Which is pretty much the case. They’ve used a combination of strategies throughout the years, but the most effective one is usually a simple algorithm designed to recognize names and activate the comms based on that.

“Well, that’s the other theory. That this guy in the chair is a computer program. But personally, I don’t buy that. I think the ghost is Batman’s handler. Like a spy.”

The milkshakes arrive and Tim orders pancakes, because it may be noon, but that’s practically lunch for a Bat. Bernard asks to keep the specials menu for a little longer, whispering “you’ll see” when Tim looks at him quizzically.

“Well,” Bernard said, “if you were a superhero, what would your name be?”

Tim has to think about that. He is a superhero, or a vigilante at least, but he’s not exactly the best at…original names. After all, he took on a legacy title, adopted a suit already stained with blood, and then returned to his old title. He’s never been able to think of his own name. But he wants something cool, maybe something flight-themed… “Drake,” he decides.

“Drake.” Bernard echoes.

“A dragon!” Tim explains. “That’s a pretty cool name.”

“…a male duck,” Bernard counters. “Also, that’s literally your last name. Secret identities exist for a reason!”

“Ah, but no one will suspect someone named Drake will name himself Drake to hide his identity!” Tim says triumphantly.

“If you became a superhero named Drake, I think I’d have to put you out of your misery. It’s my duty as your boyfriend.”

Tim sighs. Sure, Drake sounds cool, but…a duck. “My ghost would thank you, I guess.”

“You could be Wraith,” Bernard suggests. “They call the comms presence Ghost online, so if you’re my Ghost, that would fit really well.”

“Wraith sounds a little villainous, though. Like…wrath.” It sounds like something Tim would’ve taken up in the League of Assassins.

“I mean, you’d be an awesome villain. But you could be, like, the cool morally grey hero. If all the heroes went evil, you could fake your death and rebel against them as the Wraith.”

“Alright, that is a cool backstory.”

“Told you!” Bernard smiles slyly. “But since I named you, you have to name me.” He spreads his arms wide. “I submit myself to your terrible naming skills.”

Well, now Tim needs to think of a good name. “You could be…the Conspiracy? Wait, no, I’ll think of a better one. You could be the Kraken. Like a force of destruction, rising from the depths. Or…Prism. You work with perceptions and how they’re warped. Or…”

“I like Kraken,” Bernard says, repeating it like he’s trying it on. “Kraken. Kraken.”

“Kraken and Wraith. I like it.”

Tim digs into his pancakes while Bernard pours syrup all over his waffles. Why does Tim always end up dating people who like waffles? It’s unnatural.

“I’m guessing there was a reason you wanted to come here specifically,” Tim says. “And…I’m guessing it has to do with the specials menu you asked to keep.”

“Yeah,” Bernard says. “Look.” He passes the menu over to Tim, who squints at it curiously. It doesn’t have any particularly weird foods on it, and this is Bernard, so Tim immediately looks for secret codes. And sure enough, the letters of the appetizer specials spell out BWRY, the entrees are TN, and the desserts are PM.

“Bowery at 10 PM,” Tim whispers. He looks up at Bernard, astonished. This is—well, maybe they’re overreacting, but there’s a decent chance this is something real. “Bernard, I think you may have found an actual conspiracy.”

“You found that really quick,” Bernard says.

“I had context,” Tim shrugs. “I’m guessing what clued you in was the commas?”

“Yeah,” Bernard nods. “Last time I went here, it was saying Crime Alley…they had ‘Rice, Fried’ and ‘Yellow Rice’ on here. Inconsistency in formatting…”

“…means that someone really wanted it to be formatted that way…”

“…and this is Gotham, which means it’s nothing good. Plus, rice isn’t typical diner fare. I look for patterns, and this just jumped right out at me.”

“Wow,” Tim says, at a loss. He would not expect criminals in Gotham to pass messages through diners, but Bernard did. Bernard expected the unexpected and because of it, he saw a pattern no one else would’ve picked up on. “You’re amazing,” Tim blurts out.

“Obviously,” Bernard says, with an exaggerated grandiose motion. Then he snorts and leans back, laughing. “So, what do you think it is, Wraith?”

“I don’t know,” Tim says. “But—what do you say about finding out?” He really should leave Bernard out of this. There’s a chance that it could be something really serious, something for Robin to handle. But…Bernard is the one who found this. And Tim would trust him at his back.

“Thought you’d never ask.” Bernard grabs his backpack from under the table and pulls out a UV flashlight, a set of lockpicks, and what looks suspiciously like bolt cutters.

“You come prepared,” Tim says, scanning over the prices. If he was going to hide a secret message in the diner menu, he’d consider doing it there.

“I looked at the prices,” Bernard says, leaning over the menu with Tim. “I couldn’t see anything, but maybe you can.”

The prices aren’t weird, but they are inconsistent. Some things cost a certain amount of dollars—others cost a certain amount of dollars and 99 cents. There aren’t enough specials for a message, but—Tim calls over the waitress and apologetically asks her for the menu again. She mutters something about growth spurts and passes him one from an empty table. “Do you have a notebook?” Tim asks, and Bernard passes him one with a pen from his bag. “Are you a boy scout or something?”

“I was a cub scout,” Bernard says.

Tim starts recording down the prices—ones with cents as 1 and ones with nothing as 0. He tries translating the first few letters using ASCII, but they’re gibberish, so he switches the ones and zeroes and tries again. This time, he gets a word. And with a grin, Tim is off, pencil tearing across the paper as he translates at top speed. When he’s done, he sits back, breathing like he just ran a marathon.

“It’s a message,” Bernard whispers.

MASTERMIND DISTRIBUTION POINT. VICTORY IN A VIAL. RIDDLER.

“It’s an advertisement,” Tim agrees, scanning over the paper. “I don’t know exactly what mastermind is, but…”

“But you can guess,” Bernard says. “They’re distributing something.”

“And knowing the Riddler, it’s probably not guns or people. Likely a drug that’s supposed to increase your intelligence, and the Riddler is using the people who take it as his lab rats. I doubt it actually increases your intelligence, but…” He closes his eyes, slumping back in the booth. “I knew the gangs were acting weird. I knew it.” Tim’s eyes snap open. “From the Neon Knights program,” he clarifies, because he’s gotten so caught up in solving this with Bernard that he completely forgot the other boy doesn’t know Tim is Robin.

“You are really hot when you’re doing that genius thing,” Bernard says.

What is Tim supposed to say to that? Help, he thinks his brain is melting. “You too?” He tries, because, well, it’s true. That’s what you’re supposed to say to a compliment, right?

“Hey, want to find out what it is?” Bernard asks.

“I don’t know…maybe we should leave this for Batman and Robin.”

“If you’re sure about that,” Bernard says. “But surely a little look into the kitchens couldn’t hurt.”

Tim…can’t find it in himself to refuse.

They get the check and squabble over who’s paying (eventually, they play rock paper scissors, winner pays). And then, the two pretend to head for the restrooms.

Slipping into the kitchen area proves too difficult. Tim might be able to blend into the shadows as Robin, but he can’t blend into harsh fluorescent lighting, and Bernard has no such training. “Okay, so about reporting this to Batman…” Bernard says.

“Wait,” Tim tells him. “If they are storing drugs in this building, there’s no way they would carry them through the kitchens. That’s a literal recipe for disaster. There’s got to be another way in.”

Bernard points toward a closet door right next to the restrooms, labelled, ‘Extra Cleaning Supplies—Susan Only.’ “There’s no way they clean anything in this diner,” Bernard says, “let alone use any extra supplies.”

“Very suspicious,” Tim agrees.

“Okay, so, I have lockpicks,” Bernard says. “But…I don’t know how to pick locks.”

For a second, Tim tells himself that lockpicking skills are not something expected from a sixteen-year-old rich kid, and a lack thereof would be the perfect excuse to get Bernard out of danger and handle this as Robin. But Bernard stands there smiling with the lockpicks held out, like he already knows that Tim can do it and he’s proud.

Tim has a problem and Tim knows he has a problem, but that doesn’t make it any less of a problem. His fingers close around the lockpicks. “You ready to save Gotham’s youth?” Bernard asks.

“This is peer pressure. I’m being peer pressured into attempting to thwart the Riddler.” By my civilian boyfriend, Tim adds in his head. What the hell? This is not how the day was supposed to go.

“You’re already saving Gotham’s youth,” Bernard says. “If you don’t want to do this, it’s okay.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” Tim admits.

“I’m the one who has martial arts training, remember? And if we get caught, we can just pretend we were looking for somewhere to make out.”

“I—what—Bernard—” Tim splutters.

“Hey, it’s a good tactic,” Bernard says, raising his hands defensively.

“We—we don’t have to get caught sneaking into a Rogue’s drug lair to make out. If you want to,” Tim says, cheeks red.

“Noted,” Bernard grins, blush just as vivid. “But let’s save the making out for when we’re not possibly in mortal peril.”

“Right,” Tim says, and begins to pick the lock. He slows himself down significantly, so he doesn’t look quite as suspicious.

“How’d you learn to do that?” Bernard asks as Tim works. “And why?”

“YouTube tutorials. It looked cool and I spent a lot of time alone as a kid so there was no one to tell me I was wasting my time.”

“Well, it doesn’t seem like a waste of time now,” Bernard says.

The lock clicks open and Tim cautiously opens the door. A concrete staircase descends into the darkness. “Let’s go,” Tim says. “Before we get caught.” The pair steps in and closes the door. Tim shivers. He’s vulnerable in civilian clothes, without his bo staff, with a civilian to protect who doesn’t know that Tim isn’t a civilian too.

Bernard flicks on a flashlight and passes one to Tim. “You really did come prepared,” Tim whispers.

“I was planning to investigate a conspiracy,” Bernard whispers back. “Of course I did. I was kind of hoping it was the Court of Owls, though I’d imagine they wouldn’t work out of a sketchy diner, and my theory is that they’re hiding in a tunnel complex beneath Gotham. So, I’m extra, extra prepared.”

“Did you bring caving supplies?” Tim asks.

“…yes.”

At the bottom of the staircase, they reach a corridor with a single, flickering light.

“This is creepy,” Bernard whispers.

“Rogues are dramatic,” Tim shrugs. He scans the corridor. Bernard takes a step forward and Tim throws an arm across his chest. “Wait.” He points to a small black circle on the wall in front of them and a black circle on the wall opposite from it.

“What’s that, do you think?”

“Banner sensor of some type. Break up the invisible beam between them, and we get found out. We should be able to crawl under it.”

Tim and Bernard army crawl a few feet forward and then get back on their feet, clothing slightly grimy. “This is like a heist movie,” Bernard whispers. “I don’t see any more of them.”

“Me neither.” The pair makes it to the other end of the hallway, where a door in the side opens up to a large room. Bags upon bags of powder are stacked on shelves, each labelled with scientific names of chemicals and serial numbers.

“Drugs,” Bernard says.

“Drugs,” Tim agrees. He steps forwards, snapping a photo of the room with his phone. If he was Robin, he’d take a sample and then destroy the stash. But right now, he’s Tim Drake, equipped with a phone and a lockpicking set, with no believable way to contact Batman without revealing his identity. And he’s pretty sure Bruce would not consider this an appropriate reason to reveal his identity.

And then Bernard takes out a matchbox and a thermos.

“What the heck?” Tim asks.

“Be prepared,” Bernard says. “I’m deferring to your judgement here, Wraith. But these drugs are going to go to teenagers. And I’m up for committing arson.”

“We could…we could go to jail for this.”

“Who’s going to report us? The Riddler?”

Tim stares at Bernard. Bernard stares at Tim. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” Tim says quietly.

Bernard nods and puts the thermos away. “Alright. We could probably turn in the evidence to the police. I don’t think the Riddler would have any in his pocket, at least.”

And then Tim turns and sees the security camera. “Crap. Alright, new plan. Arson it is. I’m guessing that thing is digital, which means we need to give them something bigger to worry about than two kids who know too much. ASAP. I’m guessing that thermos has gasoline?”

Bernard nods wordlessly and takes out the thermos again. His face is set with determination. Tim thinks in this moment, that Bernard would be an amazing superhero. But he’s not, and here he is, committing arson to save people anyway.

Tim shakes his head. “You absolutely terrifying. In a good way.”

“Says the boy who drank thirty-two shots of expresso in one drink.”

“I was being stalked!” Tim defends. He also had to fight Lady Shiva, and then fight with Lady Shiva. And aliens invaded the Earth. It was a difficult week. Bernard pours the gasoline on the drugs and dribbles a thin line out. “Okay,” Tim says. “Ready, Kraken?”

“Ready, Wraith.”

Tim lights one of Bernard’s matches and drops it on the gasoline line. Immediately, it catches on fire, flames racing toward the drugs. Smoke curls into the air. “We need to get out,” Tim says. “Now.”

They crawl under the banner sensor as fast as they can. Tim takes the sleeve of his sweatshirt and wipes the doorknob, trying to get rid of fingerprints. They thunder up the stairs, and then unlock the “supply closet” door, again wiping off fingerprints.

“Calmly,” Tim warns as they step out of the bathroom area and walk through the diner. Bernard reaches out and grabs Tim’s hand. By all accounts, they look like a normal couple. “Stay calm,” Tim says as they exit. They walk for two blocks before Tim collapses onto a bench. “I think we’re good,” he says. “I think we’re good.”

“We’re good,” Bernard repeats. He doubles over. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Tim, we just—”

“We’re good.”

And then Bernard grins and Tim can’t help but grin too and they’re laughing. It’s not funny, but they’re laughing with fear and exhilaration and relief, all mixed into one cocktail too volatile to hold inside. Bernard laces his fingers with Tim’s, each boy holding both the other’s hands, eyes meeting. Tim can feel his knees pressing against Bernard’s as they sit on the bench together, riding the adrenaline high. And then, Tim’s leaning forward like a planet caught in a gravitational orbit, but Bernard’s leaning forward too, so it’s more like a binary star system, each star orbiting around the other. Bernard’s lips press against Tim’s, and it feels like the world shrinks to that one moment, fireworks exploding in Tim’s heart.

Time starts again and the moment ends, but it’s not a disappointment, not a let-down. Tim can still feel Bernard’s hands clasped in his and the giddiness of their adventure still fills every inch of him.

“Do you want to see a movie or something?” Bernard asks faintly. “There’s a showing of that weird Batman parody at 2:45.”

Against his will, Tim opens his phone and his stomach sinks. 2:07 PM. He’s spent two hours here. Bruce must be awake by now, and Tim has so much work to do, and— “I can’t,” Tim whispers. “I’m sorry. I—”

Tim can feel Bernard exhale. “It’s okay. I know you’re very busy. I can’t even imagine how this would affect the Neon Knights situation.”

“Yeah,” Tim says, looking down. He draws his hands back and puts them in his lap. He doesn’t want to leave. Tim had forgotten what it felt like to be excited, to be happy, to be this alive. And he loves it. He doesn’t want to return to the darkness of the Batcave and the work and the bitter taste of coffee filling his mouth because he hasn’t quite sunk to taking caffeine pills just yet. Why can’t he just stay?

Well, he’s Robin, that’s why. He has a job, and he needs to do it.

“I’m sorry,” Tim adds.

“It’s okay,” Bernard repeats, looking Tim in the eyes. “It really is. I know your work’s important to you. But…please, Tim. Get some rest.”

“I’m fine,” Tim mutters. “I just committed arson with you, I’m not sleep-deprived.”

“It’s not just sleep,” Bernard says. “You need to rest. But, well, you are sleep deprived. You look kind of like a raccoon.”

“Hey,” Tim snorts. “You said I looked hot!”

“You look like a hot raccoon,” Bernard clarifies.

“That is…so weird,” Tim says. “That’s like a furry or something.”

“If anyone is a furry in this city,” Bernard says, “it’s got to be Batman.”

Tim chokes. “No. No way. No. Just…no. Do you have bleach in your backpack, Bernard? Because I need it for my brain.”

“Dresses in a giant bat costume…”

“He dresses in a uniform with bat symbolism.”

“Ears on his cowl, a cloak like wings…”

“No,” Tim says, holding out his hand. “Brain bleach, please.”

Bernard takes his hand and holds it to his chest. “Please, Tim. Promise me you’ll rest a bit.”

Tim sighs. Peer pressure at its finest. “Okay.” He did just deal a blow to the Riddler’s operation, after all. He looks at Bernard. His boyfriend’s hiding it well, but there’s no way he’s not freaked out. Tim would be freaked out, if he was a civilian who had just gone up against a Rogue. And when Tim is freaked out, he desperately wants something normal. “You know, if we hurry, we can make that movie you mentioned.”

They do make it to the movie theater. Tim eats about three pieces of popcorn before falling asleep, head resting on Bernard’s shoulder. When he wakes up, he has a cramp in his neck but a soft, glowing ember in his heart.

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